Undercover
by kazumigirl
Summary: Harry Lockhart and Sherlock Holmes wake up in each other's lives! What will they do? Classic gay detective duo meets modern gay detective duo. Rated M mostly for language, but a bit of sexual ref.
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter One  
**

**Author's note:** Just a teaser. A 'test' if you will. I want to see if it can actually work. Let me know what you think :)

_Fuck. There's no other word for a situation like this. Okay, some...PG-13, or 'educated' person would use something like phenomenal or flabbergasted, but I wasn't really in a state of mind to...well...hmm...__let me start by explaining that I woke up in a room I didn't remember, a bed that wasn't mine, and next to a man I didn't know. _

___So I'm lying in this bed, scared of my fucking mind, looking around, and this guy sits up next to me. Moustache. I swear to God it's the first thing I notice about him. Hell, it's the first thing anybody would notice. He looks like the guy on the damn Pringles can. Sort of.... so anyway, he sits up, turns to me, and just when I'm sure he's about to start freaking out just like I already should be doing, he leans over and kisses me. Right on the mouth. Like it's the most normal fucking thing in the world._

"Good morning," he says, parting their lips briefly, hesitating slightly. When the other man doesn't respond, he jokingly knocks on his head. "Anybody in there?"

The other man narrows his eyes, and sweat beads are starting to form at his hair line. He finally says quickly, and rather quietly, "I don't know where I am."

The other man stares at him a minute, his brows furrowing, and then he rolls his eyes. "Why are you talking like that?"

_I guess I should have mentioned that the Pringles guy I woke up next to was a British guy. _

"I don't know." It's stupid, but he doesn't know what else to say.

"_Holmes_," the other man groans, climbing out of bed. He stands there, a stern look on his face. "I know you're upset about how the case is going, but this is no reason to act theatrical about it." He shrugs a little, his arms still crossed. "I mean, just because our lead suspect is American doesn't mean you have to start talking like him."

_Fuck. What do you say to that? And what case? Okay, backtrack, backtrack. What was the last case? Were we even talking about the same case? _

"Look, we'll figure it out," he says. "We always do." He climbs back into bed and kisses him again. The other man is tense. He affectionately taps his chin.

_Fuck. So where the hell am I? And what am I supposed to say? Okay, so I definitely do not recall climbing into bed with this guy, but he seems to recognize me. Hell, he even has a name for me. Holmes. All I can think about is what Perry is going to think about when he finds out. He will not be happy. Mad as all fuck is more like it. Trust me when I tell you that._

__

* * *

He sat up, leaning back on his hands, and looked around. The room felt cool, but in a way he'd never really felt before. Whoever was beside him, grunted and an arm reached out of the cacoon and blindly fumbled around. It found the top of his head and pulled him down next to it. The one being pulled did not take kindly to this and punched the lump of blankets, ripping himself away.

The stranger shot up, showing himself fully. "Fuck! What is wrong with you!"

"You're not Watson."

The other man rubbed his jaw where he'd been struck. "What the hell....?" he muttered. He then asked in a clear, and clearly exasperated manner, "Why are you speaking with an English accent?"

"There's a pistol in your trousers," the other noted, ignoring him, eyeing the crotch of his pants. He looked suspicious.

The other man frowned a little longer, and a smile finally tugged at the corner of his mouth. "You're such an idiot," he said quietly, but there was no real bite to it.

"Am I mistaken then?" The other man kept his eyes on the bulge in his pajama bottoms that were not of human anatomy.

"You know I've started sleeping with the faggot gun," the other replied, like he was reminding him for the hundreth time. "Ever since that dickhead burglar tried to break in a second time." A faint look of concern crossed his face. "You feeling okay, Harry?"

The other man raised his eyes towards the ceiling. "Um..." he quickly changed his speaking structure, mustering the best American accent he could answer. "Yes..."

"Good." The other leaned over and kissed him briefly. "You got a fuckload of paper work that needs to be done."

__

To Be Continued....

Faint lavender. The smell awoke him. It was not a scent he was used to, and it pulled him sleep, a warning almost. Before he even opened his eyes, he could feel the mattress beneath him, and something was wrong. It was softer, wider. He still didn't have to open his eyes to know that the weight next to him was not Watson. It was heavier. He finally opened his eyes, mentally absorbing the ceiling- a different color and texture than his usual morning ceiling. The room was not the same room at all. Several strange pieces of furniture littered the large area, some he could not even put names to. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

Author's note: Okay, here is chapter 2. I'm glad I've gotten such good feedback on it. It makes me sing! Not really, but anyway, the chapters are all going to be like this. One will be Harry's story, the other Holmes. Don't worry, Sherlock is chapter 3_  
_

__

Shitfuckitall. Okay, for those of you who just stumbled upon this story-go back and read chapter one. This is chapter TWO. Aw, screw it. I know you won't. Well, let me recap. I just woke up next to a gay englishman with a moustache. Yah, now you're thinking of going back and reading chapter one. Don't bother. Seriously. The recap pretty much sums it up.

Harry doesn't know what to do. The strange man with the moustache has cleaned up, dressed, and moves about the room to go about his day. He hardly pays the lemur-eyed man in bed any attention as he flips open a newspaper, his eyes glued to it as he moves across the room to a chair.

"Perhaps you should take a rest from the case today," he finally says, still reading. "Actually _get _some rest."

Harry wants to ask who this man is and why he is here and what's going on. The only problem is, after working with Perry for a year, he's learned just to play along in odd situations like these. _Traps_, as Perry called them.

_Okay, so I finally get out of bed and pick up the nearest clothes I spot on the floor. And I'm really starting to get creeped out because these are the same kind of clothes some dude in a history book you've never opened wears. Fuck._

"That's _my _shirt," the moustache says, not even looking up.

"Oh." Harry kneels down and places the clothing back on the floor. When he stands up straight again, he looks around awkwardly, biting the corner of his bottom lip. He finds another shirt on the floor, and throws that one over his bare chest.

"Are you feeling alright?" Moustache rolls the paper up and stands up. He moves towards Harry and cocks his head slightly, his brows furrowing.

_No, Pushbroom, I'm just fucking dandy. Alright, so maybe I should tell the guy that this is all a mix-up, but how do I explain waking up next to him half naked? I think about it, but I swear to God I fell asleep next to Perry. And get your horny minds out of the gutter, okay? Despite what you've read and seen on the internet, gay guys don't fuck each other senseless every goddamn night. Just every other night._

_Okay, let me back up a little. Well, a lot. Just zip it, alright? I know what I'm talking about. I'm not gay. Yah, I get wild in the sheets with a PI who's popular nickname is 'Gay Perry', but I swear I'm not. I'm a gay straight guy, if that makes any sense. Like if I see a gorgeous blonde with a shapely body on the street, there's not going to be a Y-chromosome involved. Perry's just some kind of demented exception to the rule._

_Anyway, back to my original point...mmmm....oh yah! I had definitely gone to sleep in my own bed next to Perry. I remember because we'd both fallen asleep arguing about geese. And, no, I'm not going to explain any of it because goddamnit I know I'm right._

Harry doesn't know what to say. He's better at lying than Perry is telling the truth, but it would be easier to lie if he had some sense of where he was and what was going on. He finally shrugs one shoulder and moves to the chair opposite of moustache's. When he sits down, something makes a cracking sound beneath him. He stands up like he's sat on a badger, and there's a busted violin on the chair. Moustache looks at him, his eyebrows raised.

"Fuck." Is all Harry can say, quietly, staring at the cracked instrument. He turns to Moustache. "I'm...sorry...I didn't..."

Before the other can say anything, there's a knock at the door. A woman's voice. Oh, how Harry wishes it were Harmony.

_Okay, so you're probably wondering, 'Oh, yah! What the hell happened to her anyway?' Well, Harmony and I are still very close, but not in a romantic way. I mean, I'd always hoped and dreamed for that, but...no...we're just super good friends...I dunno...it's hard to explain. Harmony has this sex-switch or something. She's very good at turning it off when she's around me, and for the longest time, the trick was getting me to turn mine off around her. It took a while, but Perry eventually took care of it. Yah...well..._

"Dr. Watson?" The door opens a crack and an older woman pokes her head in. "Mr. Price just dropped by. He said he has to cancel his appointment today." She looks around. "Would you gentlemen like some tea?"

"Yes, thank you," Dr. Watson smiles, nodding. When she leaves, he turns back to Harry. "I'm really starting to worry about you...more than usual..."

Harry is holding the busted violin, an expression on his face that looks like a small child who just popped their own birthday balloon. Dr. Watson takes it from him, examining it. He 'hmm's a bit, turning it over, fingering the cracks, and gives it back to Harry. "It can be fixed," he says. "Now, let's have some breakfast, get yourself cleaned up, and we'll go out for a bit."

_Okay, my favorite breakfast in the entire world is Honey Comb cereal. Goddamn that shit is addictive. I can easily eat four bowls of it, standing up. So you can only imagine my sheer disappointment when 'breakfast' turns out to be some plain toast, tea, and room-temperature fruit and jam. Nursing home breakfast or something._

"You have to eat," Dr. Watson says, watching Harry stare at the food. "I know this case is racking your brain, but-"

"What case?" Harry asks. "I don't remember."

"What?" The doctor's brows furrowed. He puts his teacup down. "I don't even know if you're pretending or not anymore, Holmes."

"Look-" Harry pushes his plate away. "My name isn't Holmes, okay? I'm sorry it's taken me this long to say anything. My name is Harry Lockhart and-"

Before he can finish, the doctor lowers his head and starts massaging his eyes with his fingertips. He's shaking his head, and Harry wonders if he's known along that something wasn't right. When he finally looks up, he's grinning, but it's not a happy grin. It's an annoyed, are-you-serious-grin.

" 'Harry Lockhart'?" He repeats.

"Yah..."

"Oh, God." He's shaking his head again.

Harry eyes his newspaper on the small table beside him, and his brows furrows slightly. Watching the doctor in the corner of his eye, he reaches over and takes it, scanning the front page. He suddenly feels ill, and he can't help but make a little half whine, half groan noise. The doctor raises his eyes to him. His smile is gone, and he stands up.

"You're not serious, are you?" He asks, his speaking just a little faster, his tone just a little higher.

Harry shifts in his chair uncomfortably. He doesn't even know how to answer that.

_If you ever want to play a cruel joke on somebody, here's what you do: Drug them, move them into a room they've never seen before and have them wake up next to a guy with a moustache and an accent. To really get a kick out of it, put a newspaper out with the date being set in the late 1800s. It's fucking hilarious. To the joker, I mean. To me, well, I was scared shitless. _

"You need rest," Dr. Watson says, sighing slightly. "I hope that you're kidding, but, Holmes, if you're not..." he stares at Harry again, hoping he'll suddenly laugh and say 'fooled you' or something. "You're not...are you?"

Harry shakes his head a little. The doctor nods, looking away. When he looks back at him, he asks in a voice that doctors use around crazy people-the slow, gentle tone- "Who are you again?"

"Harry Lockhart," Harry says. "I'm a detective."

_Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it. I work for one, but let me have my moment, okay? This guy doesn't know me. He won't be able to prove I'm not. And besides, I'd say I've done enough casework to earn the PI title, okay? Even if it's just following Perry around._

"Uh huh..." The doctor nods again. "Are you an American detective, Mr. Lockhart?"

"Yah, I'm from Los Angeles," Harry says. "Well, New York-Well, Indiana, originally."

The doctor looks off to the side again, mouthing a swear word, and finally scratches his head, somewhat awkwardly. He asks, "And you're really sticking to that story?"

Harry nods. "And, uh, sorry I broke your violin."

To Be Continued...


End file.
